Her chest heaves in slow-burn motion
like pain etched on her clamped spine...
and deep into a night sighing death's nearness,
brows mark a skull tattooed upon mementos,
while lungs attempt to wake frail twilight.
And petals of long hair, unruly as ever
glide along her desire to roam
through a woodland of avant-garde trails,
sampling her rebellious womanhood with
grit and reserve... a mural of splattered coatings
bearing puebla clothes and beads pitched
on the nail of passion, of iced distance,
choosing instead to taste the remaining sips
of a Latin dance, clinging unto mist
that can not restore a flamed glow.
The skull resting on her head, does it weep
for the finale of a once beguiled life;
romancing lusty tracks of her exalted journey ?
Woman! Though in the grey of fleeting hours ;
she still rises to touch the moon, to inhale
bloated fruits and leaves ...how dauntless!
When morning crawls, she lives again for pleasure
before bones of age and soil melt her fragrance.
Frida Kahlo in Free Verse Contest
Sponsor: Cyndi Mac Millan
by: nette onclaud
*Painting: Kahlo's ' Thinking